The Composer
by Wordwalker
Summary: Puckleberry. One shot. A forlorn Puck sits in his apartment, wishing for the presence of a certain Jewish diva to reignite the fire of passion within him.


The sirens blare past, the lights illuminating the shadows in bursts of red and blue. He sits there, cringing as the whirring sirens pierce his ears, intruding upon his melancholy darkness. Out there in the world, life was busy continuing, but here, all was suspended in lonely stasis. It was just him and his thoughts.

He could almost hear the ticking of his heart in the silence following the rude interruption of the world beyond his room: tick, tick, tick - the bass beat to the song he was weaving inside his head. He composed almost daily. He sang almost always; the words he could never speak. The songs were always about the same thing; they were always about her. It was as if nothing else in the universe had any effect on him whatsoever. Even as he taps his fingers on the denim clothing his legs, he feels her hand within his. He vividly recalls the softness of her skin, the way her fingers intertwined themselves with his. He glances down at his hands. They look just as they always did; they have the same scars, the same callouses, the same patterns of ridges. Yet he feels that they are different. Now, they feel empty; he doesn't know what to do with them now that they aren't holding hers.

By the flickering candlelight he returns to tapping out the tune in his head. It's the only sound in the room, distinct even against the sounds of the traffic and people from outside. It's as though the room is too big for such a sound, and he feels lost within those walls of flaking paint.

He is tired, but the bed is uninviting, the knotted sheets threaten to suffocate him if he comes too close. Too many nights has it suffered him restlessly tossing and turning, sleep evading him however he lay. Nothing could stop the constant replay of his memories flickering in his mind like images from a film. Nothing could obliterate the fact that she wasn't there to keep him warm anymore. Tentatively, he places his fingers on the keys of the piano before him. He sits like that for several minutes, trying to compose the perfect melody to accompany the beat of his heart and the thoughts in his head. But the inspiration does not flow. He sighs and lifts them from the keys once more. He's beginning to think that perhaps he's outgrown them. How else to explain the way they feel so cold and unfamiliar when they once felt as familiar as a well worn jumper. The sheet music glaring him in the face waits to be played, but he cannot bring himself to wipe away the dust of months; he cannot face the duet alone.

Music used to fill the very corners of that room, in happier days. He used to wait on those lonely nights for her to arrive. She only lived down the hall but she was careful in choosing when to visit. Together they would sit at this very piano, he playing, fingers dancing across the keys, creating the melody, while she, sitting beside him, raised her voice in harmony with the music. Even now, he sat where he used to sit, leaving the space she used to occupy. Although he knew it would not happen, he still hoped that perhaps one night she would reappear, gingerly grasping his hand and placing them on the piano, urging him to play.

When they had satisfied themselves with song, she would take his hands again. Tugging gently, she, Rachel Berry, the girl who had wanted to wait until she was 25 to sleep with anyone, would lead him to the bed and his fingers would then lightly dance across her exposed skin, quickly followed by his lips. They would lie there, limbs entangled, and he'd bury his face in her hair. With eyes closed, he'd listen to her breathing and compose songs to the quiet rhythm. In the middle of the night, he would listen to her dress and steal out of the room, returning home. She could never stay. He learned to distinguish her tread from those of the building's other inhabitants. Sometimes in his silent moments he could still hear her walk past his door. Every time, he would hold his breath, praying that she would knock, but she never did.

He missed tracing the contours of her face with his fingertips. He missed the feel of her lips upon his skin, he longed for the smell of her perfume. He wished that she would return. The only scent in the room now was that of the ever shortening candle. He watches thin tendrils of smoke curling up from the flame as it fought to keep burning. That's how he felt sometimes. He snuffs it out, burning his fingers - for a moment feeling something other than numbness.

The traffic had since quieted, the sounds of the people dissipated, and silence descended along with darkness. He closes his eyes, and clenches his jaw, trying to stop the tears overflowing, but they were too stubborn and forced their way past his eyelids, spilling hot into his lap, soaking his jeans.

So absorbed in himself was he in that moment that he did not hear the soft opening and closing of the door, or the light tread, the quiet breath. It wasn't until she sat beside him on the piano stool and took his hands that he looked up. She kissed the tears from his eyes, and rested her head upon his chest. Without moving, she whispers "I left him, Puck. Finn was… he wasn't you. I love you."

So he held her, cradling her body in his arms, praying that this time she would stay.


End file.
